


halcyon days

by demios



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Shin Monshou no Nazo | Fire Emblem: New Mystery of the Emblem
Genre: Character Study, Confessions, Kinda, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2017-05-17
Packaged: 2018-11-01 18:35:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10927638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demios/pseuds/demios
Summary: Marth is the strongest person he knows, yet he is the one being praised.





	halcyon days

**Author's Note:**

> do y'all ever think about merric's devotion to marth, because i do

“I think I’d like to establish a magic school in Altea one day.” Merric says, a stack of books balanced precariously in his arms as he walks through the Altean palace. “Traveling all the way to Khadein for an education in magic is not a luxury that can be afforded by all. I’m sure the Archanean league could benefit from a mage corps, as well.” With the war of their youth behind them, the mage can entertain frivolous thoughts like these.

The corners of his companion’s lips draw up as the proposal offhandedly leaves Merric’s mouth. “That’s a fine idea, Merric. Mages have been scarce in Altea’s royal history, but I believe change is overdue now that the court wizard is one so talented.”

Prince Marth readjusts his grip on the tomes in his grasp, careful not to let any of the parchment slide off the top of the pile. It makes Merric feel a subtle pang of guilt for letting the prince to carry part of his research materials, but Marth had insisted. Even Kris, soon to be knighted, couldn’t deter him from hefting half the mountain of books Merric had gathered during his study session in the library. His lineage was no reason for him to not aid a friend, which was, Merric supposed, a very Marth-like answer.

It wasn’t as if Marth lacked the strength to carry them. He had soft, youthful features that the years tugged on, but no longer was he a fragile princeling clumsily swinging his first rapier about in the palace courtyard under Jagen’s instruction. War had honed his body, giving way to lean muscle underneath his dented armor. The sight of Marth smiling tiredly after each successful seize on their journey through the continent flickers through his mind, one he never found himself tired of - the true image of a prince-turned- hero, a radiant light to guide their ruined homeland to a brighter future.

But Marth has donned only simple garbs at the moment, no majestic cape trailing behind him or armor for the light to gleam off of. Merric has followed suit, his heavy mage robes discarded on the chair of his study leaving him only a simple tunic. Strolling through the halls of the palace with sunlight shining through the aged columns lets Merric pretend, if only for moment, the nightmarish strife that occurred years prior had only been a dream - that prince Marth and princess Elice had grown up without knowing of loss and sorrow and that Altea hadn’t been ravaged in his absence.

“And I’m sure you’d make a wonderful teacher,” he adds, the prince grinning at the mage now. Not the political smile he’d taken to perfecting, but a crooked flash of teeth that reminds Merric of the Marth in his youth.

The mage thinks it a measure of strength for the other to be able to smile in spite of all he’s suffered. During the first war, there was a scowl that had ingrained itself on the prince’s face, no doubt from the revenge festering inside of his young body. An air of melancholy shrouded him when he thought no one was looking; Jagen remarked it was the same expression the prince wore when they departed for Talys.

He was one of the few privy to the prince’s heart. Confessions of weakness could never be brought to the light of day, not when he had an entire continent depending on him. But in the darkness of a shared tent, Marth dropped the guise of hero and revealed the vulnerable child underneath; though the prince was barely a year younger than him, the burden Marth carried was one Merric couldn’t begin to fathom.

Marth is the strongest person he knows, yet he is the one being praised.

“Sire, please. You flatter me.” With his hands occupied, Merric can only succumb to the light flush that colors his cheeks. He shifts in place slightly, unused to the lofty compliment. Perhaps that isn’t the right way to describe it; Marth is exceptional at drawing forth others’ best qualities and laying them bare for all to see. Merric should be used to it by now, but it makes his inside jump for a reason he can’t pinpoint.

“I only speak the truth.” Marth returns, one piece of parchment nearly sliding off the stack in his arms. After regaining his balance, he speaks again. “I’m sure my father wouldn’t have been so receptive, but I welcome the idea.”

At the mention of former king, something twinges in the confines of Merric’s chest. Truthfully, it’s been a long while since they were able to speak at ease like this. No terse discussion of strategies and war tactics in a dimly lit tent while sporting bruises and gashes - just idle chatter between friends without the immediate threat of death looming over them. He hadn’t realized how stifling it had been until now.

Merric appreciates moments like these the most. He remembers the peaceful times before Medeus’ attack, the days where he would dally about the palace with Marth and Elice. Merric knows those days are far-off. There’s a distance between them now. One is the distance of countries and years during their youth – it was no surprise Marth didn’t immediately recognize the mage upon their first reunion, his fragile constitution replaced with the ability to wield one of the most sought-after tomes in Archanea.

The other is self-imposed. While Marth bore the weight of a kingdom, Merric could only twiddle his thumbs in Khadein. He knows he’s been blessed – blessed with wonderful mentors and peers and the fact that he didn’t have to see his country fall before his eyes. It’s for this reason he’s dedicated himself to Marth’s cause, to make up for the time he couldn’t be by his dear friends’ sides. He bitterly swallowed his guilt during the ordeal, vowing to make himself useful to the prince.

At times he wondered if he’s actually _meant_ to stand by the prince’s side. Marth wields a blade of light and Merric a blade of wind, yet he can’t help but wonder if another would be more suited to his place. One who possessed strength and skill instead of sheer _luck_. When Marth pressed Starlight into his hands, a creeping doubt settled itself in the pits of his stomach only able to be dispelled by the hope the prince carried in his eyes. (Because how could he refuse that?)

Yet Marth still feels like home after everything that’s transpired, and he’s glad about that. When he speaks with prince, it’s as if the distance he perceives has disappeared completely. (And, perhaps, he had never left in the first place.)

Merric’s thoughts wander, a scene of King Cornelius laughing heartily on a balmy summer day when Marth had exclaimed he wanted to practice magic, a fire tome eagerly flapping in his hand. Kings were meant to wield swords, not tomes, he had said in good jest. Altean knights were the finest soldiers in the land - sickly boys only skilled in parlor tricks weren’t suited for the task.

Watching the new recruits and finding not a single mage among them, he could only offer guidance to those interested in wielding staves. And even they had eventually forfeited in the face of adversity, leaving only a single platoon to take up arms as the new generation of Altean knights. He had been enthusiastic to impart his knowledge on any aspiring magic users, but…

A quiet sigh passes through his lips before he can stop it.

“Is something the matter?” Marth’s gaze is fixed on him now, head tilted in curiosity.

“Ah, no. I was just recalling something .” Merric is suddenly he aware he had been uncharacteristically quiet, sporting a pensiveness that didn’t accompany his usual brand of chatter. It wasn’t his intent to warrant Marth’s concern. “Say, do you remember when I wanted to become a knight when I was younger? Ha, I could barely lift a training sword.”

“I remember it well. You frequently got sick, but insisted we spar when Elice was watching.” Marth laughs lightly, amusement entering his eyes. “And there was the time your knees got so scraped up you ended up crying in my sister’s arms.”

“Is that what you choose to dedicate to memory?” Merric asks with another sigh. Of course it’d be something he’d remember, a notable humiliation in front of the princess of Altea that would make him shy away from the sword. He didn’t expect his friend to hold onto the memory as well, not with the myriad of other things worth remembering as heir to the Altean throne.

“It was quite memorable.” Marth’s smile turns wry.

Merric kindly ignores his friend’s teasing. “I love magic and wouldn’t give it up for the world, but at times, I wonder what it could have been like to be more like...” _Like the others, like you._ While magic is his niche, he can’t help but feel it quails in the presence of seasoned knights and the prince of Altea.

He’s unsure of what to think of the path he pursued – he had heard no word from his family after Altea’s fall, and could not decide if continuing to study magic would be carrying on their legacy or disgracing their name.

Entertaining possibilities that would never come to pass is fruitless. He offers the prince an apologetic smile. “Can you believe it? Even after all these years, I still dwell on trivial matters like this. A bad habit, I suppose.”

“You needn’t worry about that.” Marth hums in thought. “You wield Excalibur, do you not? I may not understand all the intricacies of spells and tomes, but it’s recognized your skill.”

Merric shakes his head, causing a couple unruly strands of hair to fall in front of his face. Master Wendell often said the same, but he couldn’t help but disagree. “Excalibur could have easily been passed to another of my peers.”

He remembers Arlen’s stiff congratulations after he had been chosen as heir to the tome. His classmate was far more skilled and experienced in the ways of magic; it was only by chance the sylphs had answered his pleas. He was certain if Arlen had been the one to summon the spirits, Excalibur would have chosen him in a heartbeat. “It was a mere coincidence.”

“I prefer to call it fate.” The prince corrects him. “And even if you wield a tome, you are as much of an Altean knight as those wielding swords and lances. I hope you know that.”

Merric thinks it a wonder how his worries can dissolve in a single breath. This was how it had been when he was young, too, hadn’t it? Marth and Elice had the utmost faith in him when his endeavors were shunned by the rest of the nobility, including his house. Without their support, he wouldn’t have taken the path he walked now, wouldn’t have found the allies he had grown close to, and found his purpose.

He can’t do anything but trip over his own tongue as he expresses his gratitude. “I… thank you, sire.”

Marth seems satisfied with the answer. “Think nothing of it.”

Merric fumbles with the door to his study, taking care to not let his materials fall as he finally undoes the latch. Though he had only been in Altea for a few months, his room had taken on the appearance of having been thoroughly ransacked. There are books and parchment strewn everywhere, with the occasional garment buried underneath. It hadn’t struck Merric to be self-conscious about it until he was guiding the prince through his sea of belongings. “Do excuse the mess… I was never the tidiest student in Khadein either, I’m afraid.”

“Had I not others to help me, I’m sure my room would have been in a similar state.” Marth chuckles, a warm sound that fills the silence of his room. “I haven’t had much time to read as of late. Well, for leisure, I mean.”

Merric places the stack of tomes he had been carrying on his cluttered desk, exhaling in relief when his shoulders no longer feel strained. He brightens at Marth’s statement, always glad to share literature with a friend. “I could offer you some recommendations; I read quite a bit on the way to Altea. Sand doesn’t make for the most titillating of scenery. Give me a moment here…”

Marth follows suit, placing his share of Merric’s research materials on the desk as well. He watches fondly as the mage rummages through drawers and shelves. “I suppose you’ll be making the trip back to Khadein soon?”

Merric was never one to restrain his curiosity – the pursuit of a hypothesis has always invoked some voracious beast inside him that was never satisfied until he reached the truth. And there is a hypothesis he had kept in the back of his mind, one that he thought he’d never put to the test. At least, in the presence of his liege. The thought surfaces in his mind with the question – there’s a twist within his ribs at the thought of having to leave again so soon.

“Yes. My thesis is still unfinished, but I will return to my homeland posthaste once it is complete.” He sets the few books he had managed to extract from the mess in his room on top of the recently added tomes, taking a moment to brush off his tunic. “And I’m eager to see how our new knights fare.”

“I look forward to it, then. Should you require my aid, do not hesitate to call upon me. No matter the distance, I’ll be by your side every step of the way.”

And that turns out to be it – the way Marth beams at him makes his heart feel as if it’s about to burst and he leans over the cluttered desk in his study to press his lips to the prince’s.

Marth’s lips are soft and warm for the moment Merric’s lingers on his. He pulls back enough to admire the way the prince’s eyelashes have fluttered shut in response to the sudden contact.  An unintentional swipe of the tongue over his own lips reveal Marth also tastes a hint sugary, most likely from the task Kris had decided to undertake – earlier in the day, he and Katarina were making confections in the kitchen to remedy the former’s horrid cooking. (His confections taste like steel, Caeda had once said. No doubt it tasted like a sword dipped in sugar.)

But the giddy feeling soon fades and an all-consuming dread near knocks the mage flat. As a misplaced afterthought, he’s glad the impulse struck him after his tomes and scrolls had been placed on the top of his desk, because the subsequent shock would surely have made him drop his materials. Merric’s brain catches up to his body and he pulls back without much grace or warning.

“F-forgive me, sire! I’m not sure what came over me; that was quite uncouth and I apologize-” Though, is there really an adequate way to apologize for kissing the future king of Altea? Scarlet singes his cheeks and ears and he’s prepared to extend his pilgrimage to the next continent if it would spare him the embarrassment.

Marth holds a hand up to halt the stream of babbling that falls from Merric’s lips. “No, it’s quite alright. I, uh, enjoyed it. It… felt nice.” The last part is admitted sheepishly, the prince’s blush mimicking the mage’s own. Marth may have become a great orator but the vestiges of his awkwardness regarding personal affairs seeps into his words.

“Well… I’m glad.” Merric swallows, heartbeat still deafening in his ears. He mentally berates himself at the ineloquent response. That isn’t what he should be saying. He clears his throat, attempting to conjure a more coherent string of words.

“I believe I’ve wanted to do that for a while now. Sire, I…” In his approximately two decades of existence, he’s made many a blunder, both for the sake of his studies and due to a lack of experience in general, but this definitely overshadows them all. Several layers of implications appear in his mind all at once, each one more shameful than the last. Years of academia fail him as he gropes for the right words to explain himself. But how can he put into words the admiration and devotion he’s kept bottled inside him for years when it wasn’t supposed to become uncorked in the first place?

And Marth, a radiant and benevolent angel in this hellish whirlpool of thoughts, only smiles softly at him as the mage is debating all the ways he could banish himself from the kingdom.

“There’s no need for words; I understand.” This time, the prince leans over the desk to take the hands Merric had started to wring in distress. Marth has nice hands, too – calloused from swordplay but they fit well into Merric’s own. His thoughts stray again and he wonders what it would be like to press his lips to the back of one. Thankfully, this time his self-control holds strong and he listens to the prince continue to speak.

“To be honest, I shared the same sentiment. Though perhaps I wouldn’t have expressed it so boldly.” Marth is rubbing small circles into the flesh of his hand and Merric looks slightly less stricken, finally realizing that Marth doesn’t intend to cast him out of Altea or his life. “I… wouldn’t mind if you did it again, Merric.”

“But sire… what of Caeda?” His head spins at the thought of causing a scandal when Marth was to be wed to Caeda. Here he was infringing on the marriage of Altean royalty, and with his best friend, no less. He expects revulsion of some sort to cross Marth’s features, yet it doesn’t come.

“There’s no law saying I can’t hold love for the both of you that I’m aware of.” One corner of Marth’s lips forms a slightly impish expression, reminiscent of a child holding a secret. “And if there is… well, I am to be the next king. That can certainly be remedied.”

“That’s… a childish answer.” Disbelief creeps into Merric’s voice, the fretting from earlier now displaced by Marth’s ‘solution.’

“I’m allowed to be selfish every now and again, aren’t I?” Marth’s mirth wanes the barest amount. “I’ve taken back the entire continent in the name of my ideals, and my feelings for you shouldn’t be impeded because of something as arbitrary as a _title_ – call me stubborn, if you wish.”

“You are stubborn.” Merric sighs in exasperation, but his lips curve upwards. “But… I believe that’s one of the reasons I’m enamored with you.” The declaration leaves him effortlessly this time, and he supposes that is to be expected; it’s much easier to speak from the heart than any thesis or lesson plan.

“I’m enamored with you, too.” Marth releases his hands in favor of taking one book from the towers on his desk. “Now, which were the books you wanted to recommend me?”

Merric, without missing a beat, begins to create a stack in the prince’s arms not unlike the one he carried into the study all while tapping into the enthusiasm that stirred from the question. In hindsight it’s extraordinary to him how the air between them returns to normal, save for an underlying sensation of fluttering beneath his skin. Yet at the same time, it isn’t all that surprising; they’re still best friends, the trust they’ve forged is enough to withstand what ordeals they’ve survived.

And when Merric makes the trip back to Khadein in the morning, he won’t find himself lonely, because the faith of a king who has faith in him will keep him plenty company.


End file.
